The Difference Beetwen Beethoven and Bach
by Kansas42
Summary: Grissom/Greg friendship piece. A different ending for In the Box. A little G/S


Greg's POV  
  
"Greg, your hands are shaking."  
Damn Grissom. Damn Grissom and his damn knack for observation.  
I knew I was caught, but I'd been practicing the denial for so long that it was automatic. "No, they're not," I lied, and felt stupid. Why did I even bother lying about them?  
Grissom just looked at me. It was one of those paternal looks, one a father might give you when he knew you had gone out and partied and you still lied and said you had been at a study group. A "why do you bother lying when you know you're caught" looks. His eyes seemed like ice. "Hold out your hands," he said to me.  
Okay, I told myself, okay. You can do this. You just have to keep them steady for just a couple of seconds. Just keep 'em steady for just long enou----oh who the hell are you kidding? You know you're screwed.  
I held out my hands and willed them to stay steady for Grissom. My mother always said I had willpower worth shit.  
Grissom stared at me again and I was trapped in his icy gaze, that Grissom "grrrr" look. I knew there was no point in lying, but I figured I could keep it light, like the trembling was just an annoying side effect of something, not a symptom of freaking terror. I sort of rolled my eyes. "They've been ever since," I said, and gestured to the lab that was in the process of being rebuilt. Just looking at the ruins, I felt old. I don't think I've ever felt old in my entire life. I was too young to feel so tired.  
"I can't seem to get them to stop," I said softly, and felt like smacking myself in the head. I didn't want Grissom to know how bad it was getting. I didn't want Grissom to know that I couldn't sleep much anymore, that the burning in my back was worse than it should have been. Doctors call it "psychosomatic". I call it "pain".  
Still. . .maybe if someone knew how tired I was. . .  
"Is it affecting your work?"  
I wasn't sure if I should laugh or cry at the point. I almost started doing both. All of it was driving me crazy, the shaking, the feeble attempts at trying to pretend I was normal, that I wasn't scared shitless that my next piece of evidence was going to blow me up. It felt like there was an itching under my skin all of the time, and all Grissom wanted to know was if the shaking was affecting my work? That's all he cared about?  
Come on, Greg, don't be such an idiot. It's just Grissom. Business as always. If he started up a group therapy session and a sing-a-long of Kumbaya, it would all be just a little too creepy for comfort. And you can't let him know how bad it's getting. If Griss really does think it's affecting your work, he'll take you out, and somehow that will only make it worse, because now not only are you scarred and in pain, not only do you lose your paycheck and your seat to that jackass Hodges, you're now officially a failure. And I don't want to be a failure. I can't let Grissom down now.  
I can't let myself down now.  
I decided to try and keep it light, joking around like I always did, Greg, the lab goofball. "Maybe if I was a bomb expert," I joked, hoping Grissom might make some sort of hint of a smile. He didn't. He barely even blinked. He just kept staring at me in that concerned parental look and I couldn't stand it. I couldn't stand looking at his face. I had to look down, look away. "I'll be okay," I muttered to him, hoping he would believe that since I knew I didn't. I still couldn't meet his eyes. It's so much harder to lie to someone directly to their face.  
I knew he stood there a second longer, but I didn't want to look up until he was gone. "It'll stop," he said, and his voice held something more than his usual objectivity-science-bullshit. It held a sort of kindness, pity, exactly what I didn't want. "I'm in my office if you need me," he said. It didn't sound like something that Grissom would say.  
I didn't look up until after I knew he was gone. I held out my hands again and watched them tremble. I clenched and unclenched them into fists, glaring at them, willing them to stop.  
Stop shaking, godammit. Stop shaking.  
They wouldn't stop shaking.  
They'd never stop shaking.  
  
Grissom's POV  
  
"Hey, Griss, are you coming?"  
It was Nick and his faint Texas drawl. I might be going deaf and losing bits of my hearing piece by piece, but right now I could still hear Nick's accent. It almost made me smile. Almost.  
"Take a rain check, Nick. I'll see you tommorow."  
Nick shrugged from the doorway and walked off. He and Warrick were headed over to have some 'late night chow' and they had invited me to come along, mostly out of courtesy, I expect. Lately, I haven't gone out as much with the team as I used to. When even I realize that I've been distant, there's trouble in paradise, I guess.  
The trouble's name is otoscoloreosis. That might not be everything wrong in my life, but that's pretty much the thick of it. I know I have a lot of other faults. Catherine once described me as a hermit with no personal life whatsoever, hiding out in my condo with my genius level crosswords. I corrected her on all the little details that she tends to overlook, but really, who am I kidding? I am a hermit. And that's all right, I've made my own peace with being somewhat abstracted from others, from the world in general. But being deaf---being so abstracted from others that I can't understand what they are saying unless I'm reading their lips---that I can't make my peace with. I just can't accept the fact that I'm going deaf.  
"Grissom? Got a second?"  
I looked up. Greg was standing in the doorway, leaning on one side, one hand safely within his lab coat pocket, the other clutching some papers behind his back and out of sight. It occurred to me just then that he had been hiding his hands from sight almost as soon as he had come back to work, neat trick, for a lab tech. But I was surprised I hadn't noticed before; I guess I had just been a little too preoccupied.  
"I've got these lab results you wanted," Greg said and put the papers on my desk. He quickly retreated back to his position in the doorway, now with both hands in his pockets, obstructed from view. I didn't need to see them. I knew they were still shaking. His entire body trembled, like a fine shiver going down his spine. If I hadn't been paying attention, I probably would have thought he was drinking too much of his little blend of coffee. But this wasn't caffeine; this was fear.  
I needed to do something about this. It wasn't just the work, though admittedly, that was a problem. A lab tech who's hands were shaking would probably do more damage than good, and I didn't think the chief would be happy with any more explosions. But there was Greg to think about, and admittedly I didn't spend a whole lot of time thinking about him. . .he was just the kid in the lab who had too many hobbies and listened to the worst music known to man. But nobody should have to be this scared to do their work. . .unless maybe they were a bomb expert. I almost smirked. Greg as a bomb expert would be an interesting thing to see. He was so high strung even normally that he'd probably detonate the bomb while reaching for his coffee.  
"Why don't you sit down, Greg?" I asked him, hoping that was a good place to start. His eyes quickly searched my face and looked around, maybe searching for some hidden camera. He took a few steps forward to the chair in front of my desk, sat down on it, and then literally bounced up again. "I was just dropping those results off. I should go. I know Catherine wants this---"  
"Just sit a minute, please, Greg. I think we should talk."  
Greg sat down again, but very warily. It was all too obvious that Greg didn't want to talk. Or maybe he did, if only a small part of him. Wanting to or not, he obviously needed to. Maybe I should just send him to Nick. Nick's the people person after all; everyone knows I get along better with 'my bugs' than with people. But that wasn't fair to Greg. I was his boss. I should be helping him out.  
"Greg, about before. . ." It was as far as I got. Greg did all but explode.  
"No, wait, wait. Grissom, look, I know your worried about results being compromised, but honestly, I've got this under control. I mean, I know sometimes it goes a little haywire and I don't think it will stop, but it will, I know it will, and I'm fine, seriously. I promise that all of my work has bee---"  
"Greg, it's not your work that I'm primarily concerned about."  
Greg stopped in mid-rant, and I could see that this statement had hit him. His expression hit me. He thought that I was only concerned about the work. Did they all really see me as an emotionless workaholic, a hermit with no cares above bugs and dead bodies? Sara accused me once of having no feelings, but that's Sara; she's passionate, and when she's angry, she lashes out. It hadn't really occurred to me before that all of my co-workers thought that.  
And maybe they were right. Maybe I had grown so good at hiding my emotions to keep my objectivity that they had started to fade away from me without my even noticing.  
You're losing more than your hearing. You're losing your touch with the rest of humanity.  
"Greg," I said, and didn't know how to finish. I didn't know what to say. It seemed like I never did. A year or two ago I had been on the verge of losing Sara entirely from my work and my life. I had told her that the lab needed her, and she had stayed. What had taken me a long time to realize was that I had been the one to need her. Sara was a damn great CSI, but the lab would have recovered after loss in time. I'm not sure that I would have.  
I couldn't tell her that, though. Only a few weeks ago she had surprised me, she had asked me if I wanted to get dinner. I told her no. The no was automatic, like an immediate shutdown of emotion. And I didn't even realize until later that I had lied. But even that realization couldn't make me reach to her. I couldn't tell Sara that. . .I cared about her. I couldn't accept her dinner invitation.  
Now here I was facing Greg, and how was I supposed to tell him that he meant more to me, not the lab, but me, personally, than some annoying youngster that played his music too loud. How could I tell Greg that I had not only been scared but so coldly certain that Greg had died in the explosion and that I had lost. . .another person I cared about. I couldn't call him a friend. Greg and I weren't "buds". But that didn't mean that I didn't care. How could I tell Greg that I was so sure that he was dead and gone and that I'd never get to yell at him to turn down his awful music ever again?  
When in doubt, go scientific.  
"Greg, it's important that you receive treatment for any physical or mental scarring that the explosion may have inflicted upon you. It's possible that you might have rushed coming back a bit. You may want to consider taking some medical leave off. We can work out a cover; I'm sure Hodges can take over some of your shifts."  
It occurred to me as Greg sat there silently that he had looked like I had kicked him when I mentioned Hodges. I wondered why.  
Greg sat there for a long time, staring down at the ground. Finally, he said. . .something. I couldn't hear it.  
I glanced around. I was suddenly very aware that I couldn't hear the music that I had playing lightly in the background, or the people in the lab walking down the hallway. I looked back at Greg. He had looked up but still wasn't completely meeting my eyes.  
"I'm sorry?" I asked, and Greg repeats himself. I can't hear him, but I can read his lips say, I like the Bach. Nice choice.  
This piece of information astounds me so much that I almost forget it's my turn to say something. Greg knows Bach, I think to myself, and wish I could hear it too. It's a mix CD Catherine made for me last Christmas, almost completely of classical music. Would there be a day when I couldn't enjoy it at all anymore?  
"I didn't know you knew anything about classical music," I said, still unable to hear my own voice, though I can feel the words in my throat. Greg smiled, if only half the grin he usually made. I read his words. I used to play the piano when I was little. My aunt made me learn. He turned his head around a lot, making it harder to for me to read. Greg could never stay still, not even when he was feeling normal. I could read aunt, punishment, and hell. I smiled a little to myself. One doesn't need to hear to be able to understand an evil aunt story.  
"---I've forgotten most of it now," Greg said, his voice kicking back in like magic, "but I still know a little." My hearing had come back miraculously like it always did.  
Might not always.  
Oh, shut up.  
I listened to Greg's laughter taper off until he was quiet and solemn again. I decided that I should get to the point before my hearing went out again. "Greg," I said, glad I could hear and not just feel the words, "did you ever think about going to a counselor?"  
Greg looked at me suddenly. "A shrink? Aw, Grissom---"  
"Greg, I'm serious. I know the explosion could have had multiple ramifications on your body and your mind, and----"  
"No, no, I'm not seeing any damn shrink," Greg said, and his voice was now a little more high pitched, more anxious. I noticed a few people in the hallway start to look our way. "I don't need therapy, for God's sake! I'm not----"  
"Greg, it's perfectly natural----"  
"Oh, perfectly natural my ass," Greg interrupted, and his voice was getting dangerously close to yelling. "I mean, I know I'm a little on edge, but my hands shake just a little bit and you think I'm bananas?" Greg was up on his feet in a flash and backpeddling towards the door. "Jesus, Grissom I can do my job."  
"Can you?" I asked, and for the first time that I could ever think of, I wished I couldn't hear my own voice. It sounded cold, dispassionate, the un-emotion that everyone thought I lived in. "Can you really? Can you get up for work in the morning without dreading leaving because you're afraid you're going to die? Can you run a lab test without your hands shaking? Can you really ever make them stop? Can you enter this lab and not have flashbacks of the explosion, smell the burning plastic, and feel the burns on your back, feel----"  
"I am not fucking crazy!" Greg yelled and then suddenly froze and looked at himself. His hands were in the air and still shaking away. I watched his face as he realized he had just yelled at me. His glanced behind him at the crowd of co-workers that had been watching, including Catherine and Sara. He looked back at me. He didn't look angry anymore. He just looked very, very frightened. And very, very tired.  
He stared at me for a minute with his brown eyes very wide, and then quickly bolted, almost knocking over a few people as he run out of my office. The crowd looked around and slowly dispersed, probably wondering what all that was. I watched Catherine and Sara exchange a look and then saw Catherine enter my office. "What the hell was that about?" she asked me, her 'What the hell did you do now, Gil' voice in full effect.  
I just stared at her for the longest time and then finally shrugged. It was easier than trying to explain. I didn't even know that I could.  
  
Greg's POV  
  
I stared at myself in the mirror of the men's room. A few people of the guys had looked at me strangely, as if I had gone a little crazy. Even to me, my eyes looked a little wild, just a little too wide. My face was pale. My hands were ever-shaking.  
He thinks I'm going crazy. Grissom actually thinks I'm going crazy---  
  
---Maybe you are going crazy----  
Oh, shut up! Godammit, why did I have to explode like that? Now Grissom has good reason to think I am nutters. He'll take me off the team and send me to some godamned shrink. I'll be out of a job, in a straight jacket, and that fucking Hodges will be doing my work, not as fast as I could do it, but hey, at least his hands aren't shaking, at least he isn't the next candidate for the Funny Farm----  
"Get a grip, Greg," I said to myself, and splashed some water on my face. I watched the water trickle down my face. Maybe I was losing it. Maybe it would be better if I left, not for me, but for the team. They'd probably all be happy anyway; at least they wouldn't have to listen to Marilyn Manson anymore. God knows Hodges didn't listen to Marilyn Manson. Grissom and Hodges would probably become friends, drink tea, listen to Bach, and chuckle into the night---  
Bach? You idiot. That wasn't Bach back in Grissom's office. That was Beethoven. Are you that far gone that you're now mixing up Bach and Beethoven? Jesus, you really are losing it.  
But Grissom didn't correct me when I said it. He didn't even blink like I had said the wrong name. It wasn't just that he didn't correct me--- he didn't know I was wrong.  
I stared in the mirror. "What the hell?"  
  
Grissom's POV  
  
Hospital gowns are entirely unnecessary. They lack any dignity whatsoever.  
I was almost ready to go into surgery. The doctor would call any minute now and I would go to get cut open, me and my indignified hospital gown. I didn't want to go.  
Everyone's afraid of something. Most people are afraid of more than one thing. I was scared of this. Surgery. Not because I was worried about dying or anything. I was just afraid, just sure, really, that the doctors would cut me open and say that nothing could be done. I wanted to be able to hope. If I got this surgery and it didn't work, I wouldn't be able to hope anymore.  
"Grissom?  
Who the hell---  
It was Greg. He was leaning in the doorway again, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes looking at me and not at the ground. "Hey," he said.  
"Hi," I replied. It probably sounded strange. I couldn't believe Greg was here. "What are you---how did you know I was here?"  
"Beethoven told me."  
I didn't answer. My confusion spoke just as loudly in silence.  
"I said that Bach was a nice choice back in your office, but Bach wasn't playing, Beethoven was. You didn't know the difference because you couldn't hear it. I talked to Catherine. You're losing your hearing."  
I'm losing my balance.  
"I'll be in surgery in a few minutes. Listen, Greg, about earlier--- "  
"No, no," Greg said, shaking his head. "Look, I know I need help, or-- -or something----but you just, you can't take me off the team and put that jackass Hodges in my place. You can't, Grissom, because you---"  
"I don't think you're crazy, Greg."  
"---don't understand that it means so much t---what?"  
I smiled a little bit. "I don't think you're crazy, Greg," I repeated. "I never had any intention of taking you off the team. I'm just. . .concerned, that's all."  
Greg stared at me. The expression of disbelief melted into something else I didn't quite recognize. "It'll stop. You said so."  
"And I think it will, but I still believe that you---"  
"No. No. It'll stop." Greg's voice was quiet, soft, but with more conviction than he had been speaking of late. "It'll take time, I guess. It usually does. But it will stop." He turned his eyes away from me and his voice became even quieter. "I won't be a failure."  
"Greg, no one's concerned about you being a failure. They just care about you." I closed my eyes. This was it, I knew it. I tried once, then stopped. Finally, I said, "I care about you."  
Greg's eyes met my own again. He was silent. Then, suddenly, he laughed. "Yeah," he said, and I knew this was where class clown Greg came back in again, "yeah, we're just all a big, happy family, huh?"  
This time I let Greg get away with the joke. A heart to heart was great but people didn't just spill out all of their emotions and instantly feel better about everything. Emotions took time. It would take me time to get used to them again.  
But I would. I couldn't lose my touch with humanity. Hearing, maybe, but not people too. I couldn't lose both.  
"Griss, why didn't you tell anyone? About the hearing thing, I mean. I wouldn't expect you to confess to me, but why didn't you tell Cath or Sara or somebody? Why did you keep it all a secret?"  
There wasn't much of an answer to that. "I guess," I said, "that I just wished it would go away if I ignored it."  
Greg smiled a bittersweet smile. He looked at his hands. They weren't shaking now, but they weren't healed either. "I get that," he said.  
We looked at each other. I think this was the point where I was supposed to confess some emotion or ask for his help or say something, but I didn't know what to say. I just looked at him and shrugged. No one healed in an instant.  
Greg didn't make me. "I'll be waiting for you," Greg said as the doctor came forward and motioned me to follow. "I'll be here when you get out."  
I walked out of the room and didn't look back. Again, some words or emotions were in order. A thanks, maybe. Thank you for being there, I'll try to be there for you, thank you for trying to be a friend. I didn't know if I would be able to hear again, but I still had to learn how to communicate.  
But maybe it wasn't too late.  
  
Sara's POV  
  
"Grissom, what are we doing here?"  
I didn't know how to feel. I still felt burned that he hadn't accepted my dinner invitation. I was still angry that he had ignored what had been happening silently between us. When he had asked for me to come with him tonight, I wanted to say no just to spite him. I'm still not sure why I didn't.  
Grissom sat next to me on the roller coaster and we buckled ourselves in. "Roller coasters are wonderful for adrenaline. When you're feeling upset, the gravity on a roller coaster forces you to smile."  
I didn't feel like this mystery/philosophical/science shit. "Well, I don't like being forced to smile. Grissom, what---"  
"I care about you, Sara. The lab needs you but more importantly, I need you. I need you, Sara."  
I looked at him. His face was almost expressionless, except for a small worry line in between his eyes.  
He wanted me. . .he needs me.  
Was it too late? Maybe. But I didn't want it to be.  
I opened my mouth to tell him how I felt and the roller coaster took off.  
I held his hand and smiled with him into the night.  
  
End 


End file.
